


A Cold Truth

by TheBookishFeminist



Category: American Gods (TV)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-09
Updated: 2020-08-09
Packaged: 2021-03-06 03:21:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,524
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25806571
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheBookishFeminist/pseuds/TheBookishFeminist
Summary: Mad Sweeney seeks out a remote seer to gather a prophecy for Wednesday. Will he learn more than he came for?
Kudos: 6





	A Cold Truth

The snow came down thick and heavy, encasing the world in white silence. With an annoyed  _ harrumph _ , Sweeny turned up the collar of his worn parka, snatched from a sporting goods store three towns over. He hated the cold, always had. Hated how the frost nipped at every exposed inch of skin, his nose, his ears, even his fingers, shoved deep into his pockets, smarted in the face of unrelenting frost. Not for the first time he attempted to warm himself by thinking of the myriad ways in which he would murder Wednesday once he got back. Trust the bastard to send him to the most inhospitable place imaginable just to find some random, half forgotten prophetess who might or might not grant him insight into the outcome of his ridiculous war. Muttering curses, Sweeney was so caught up in his brooding that he didn't pay attention to his surroundings. The tall trees of the woods he'd been trudging through for what had felt like an eternity abruptly opened into a small clearing, ringed by a brook that, despite the icy conditions, burbled quietly. He barely had time to register the change of scenery before a slippery spot of black ice caught his foot. In a desperate bid to regain his balance he flailed his arms wildly, blindly grabbing at each and any branch within reach, all to no avail. 

With a sound part yelp part curse he went down, tumbling straight into the freezing embrace of the brook. The cold hit him like a punch, a thousand daggers piercing his skin, the flimsy parker and patchy jeans soak through in a matter of seconds. With a roar, his head broke the surface, the water just shallow enough that he could stand once his feet found purchase in the muddy bed. "Bloody mother _ fucken _ hell!" he yelled his anger at the trees, shaking his head even as a low tremor rocked his freezing body. This, of course, was Grimnir's fault as well. Not only had he sent him to scour the snow covered tundra, he'd also insisted to keep the dead wife with him - whether to use her as leverage against his unruly progeny or just out of a sick sense of amusement at separating Sweeney from what remained of his luck he didn't know nor care. Probably both, knowing the old schemer. 

Accordingly, his journey had been peppered with freak accidents, ranging from minor inconveniences such as running out of gas miles from the nearest human settlement to the one memorable afternoon that saw him running for dear life, chased by an enraged bull that had somehow broken free of his pasture. And now, this. 

_ Could a leprechaun actually die of hypothermia? _ he wondered as he waded through the depths, tripping twice more to land ass first on a rocky outcrop he swore hadn't been there a moment ago. With a deep sigh of irritation, he closed his eyes.  _ Was the debt really worth all that trouble? Wasn't his battle fought, in different ways by now?  _ He knew the answer to that. A battle was owed and a battle he would provide. Resigned, he opened his eyes only to jerk back startled. Where before there had only been the vast expanse of snowy nothingness, Sweeney could now make out what looked like a path, the faintest trail that, had he been forced to rely on the severely limited human eyesight, he never would have noticed. 

His surprise grew when he realized he wasn't alone anymore. Smack in the middle of the path sat a fox, a creature of purest white, marred only by a single streak of black that ran the length of its glossy coat. Its tail was neatly coiled around its front paws as it regarded the leprechaun through eyes so piercingly blue they seemed to peer into his very soul. 

For a long moment, he stood stock still, mesmerized by the vision, until a shudder wracked his frame. "The hell you lookin' at? Shoo, bugger off, or I'll turn you into a fucken scarf." he growled, pulling himself up the bank, wincing as he cut his palm on the sharp edge of a hidden rock. The fox didn't so much as fidget at his lumbering approach, a small, almost amused huff the only reaction to his threat. 

A trail of crimson droplets on the pristine snow followed him as he approached the animal. Its intelligent eyes seemed to map his rather pitiful appearance before it barked what to him sounded suspiciously like laughter. "Funny, is it? Wanna see how  _ you'll  _ look if I throw you in there?" His chattering teeth undermined the intended menace and, sure enough, the animal didn't seem in the least perturbed. Throwing him the fox equivalent of a taunting grin it turned around and padded further along the trail, pausing after a couple of steps, the inpatient twitch of its tail indicating he should follow. 

"What am I, a bloody Disney Princess? We gonna break into song next?" he muttered even as he adjusted his longer strides so as not to overtake the animal. 

His little adventure in the brook seemed to have taken longer than he'd thought for even through the thick canopy of trees overhead he could see the weak beams of the moon filtering through, bathing the powdered landscape in a ghostly silver light. His shiver this time was only partially owed to the cold. This portion of the woods was different, an eldritch place soaked in magic that even he in his weakened state could feel. He was surprised to note that it was not an unpleasant feeling. Already, his limbs were less numb, the icy tingles thawing into a more comfortable sensation as his body was enveloped by the strange force around him. 

Abruptly, his furry guide stopped in its tracks at what looked like another rock formation, this one arranged in a semicircle with the fox placed squarely in the middle. Sweeney recognized a portal when he saw one. With an air of mingled caution and expectation, he approached the creature. "This is it? Our grand destination?" he made a show of craning his head this way and that, feigning a disinterested air. "Bunch of rocks all you've got? Should've gone with the scarf thing, after all, I-" his derisive rambles were cut off mid-sentence as a sharp gust of frigid air surged up, momentarily blinding him as swirl of snow billowed around him. As suddenly as it had appeared, the wind died down, leaving him little time to adjust to the scene before him. An involuntary gasp escaped. In the exact spot the fox had occupied now stood a woman. She was tall, her form swathed in a cloak that appeared to be sewn of the very stars that circled their eternal path above them, a silvery shimmer stitched onto a canvas of deepest midnight. Her hair was pure white with a single strand of black, her eyes, when they met his, had him stagger back at the ancient wisdom that seemed to know his very core. 

"Y-You're the…" he stammered, inwardly cursing himself an idiot. How many reclusive witches could there be in any one place? Of course she was the one he was looking for. The hint of a smile tugged at the corner of her mouth as though she'd read his thoughts. 

"You've come a long way, Lugh." Her voice was the tinkling of ice, the chime of the wind through frozen leafs. It took him a moment to register her words, the use of a name he'd left behind centuries ago taking him completely off guard. Her expression was inscrutable as she studied his face. "You barely remember. You've tried so hard to forget that you've forgotten yourself." Had someone jumped out from behind a tree with a sword just then, Sweeney couldn't have moved to save his life. His eyes were lost in hers, images of another time, another  _ him _ flashing in a whirling caleidoscope of love, loss and shame. It was all too much. With an effort, he wrenched his head to the side, breaking her intense gaze. His breath came ragged, little puffs of white in the cold, still air. 

"Keep your foul parlor tricks to yourself, witch, I'm here on behalf of-" 

"The Allfather who thinks I won't take offense at the disrespect of seeking a prophecy without asking for it himself." Her eyes were twin pools of deep, frozen water, as inscrutable as the sea. When her gaze raked over his disheveled form, lingering on his hand, she nodded once before she stepped to the side. "You've paid tribute," she said, indicating the blood that still dripped from the cut in his hand. "You may enter my realm. Dry yourself by my fire. Rest. You shall not suffer for your master's insults." With that she walked further into the stone circle, her movements as graceful as the fox' had been. Within moments, she was gone from sight, seemingly vanished into thin air. With a curse, Sweeney hurried after her. Magic portals were finicky at best and he didn't want to risk getting stuck at an in-between place without her as his guide. 

The second he entered the stone circle, the atmosphere around him shimmered, golden dots dancing around him like joyous fireflies, illuminating a path of smoothest moonstone bordered by tall ferns no mortal had ever laid eyes on. Warily, he followed the trail until he emerged into a vast, snow covered valley, cupped gently in the protective embrace of vast mountain ranges. Dense vegetation covered the slopes, filling the air with the scent of sap and an unnameable wildness that appealed to something buried deep within him. Letting his eyes roam, he could make out pines, tall and proud standing next to a cluster of trees with bright red leafs he'd never seen before. 

A full moon hung over the valley, revealing a cottage nestled into the hollow at its base. Sweeney caught a glimpse of midnight cloth before the woman disappeared inside, leaving the simple wooden door ajar in invitation. He followed, hesitating at the threshold before her voice rang, clear and strong. "Come!" 

Obeying the command, he ducked his head under the eaves and stepped inside. He narrowed his eyes, expecting a dim interior stuffed with the usual witches' props of dried herbs, mysterious jars and a cat or two but what he saw had him do a double take. While the outside had suggested a humble, even cramped interior, the cottage was surprisingly spacious, the walls seemingly curving outwards to create an open, uncluttered area. Said walls were made of white stone, smooth and unblemished, lending the room a calm, restful atmosphere. The floor picked up the theme, a light, creamy wood that was covered at intervals by thick rugs in varying shades of beige. To the left, he could make out a small kitchen area, the aroma wafting from the single pot hung over the cooking fire making his stomach rumble in anticipation. 

"Take your shoes off, you're trailing mud all over the floor." At the sound of her voice, his head swiveled to the right and his breath caught. Two large armchairs, upholstered in the palest blue, were arranged around a cozy fireplace, the flames crackling merrily in invitation. What had his eyes widen, however, was the opposite wall. Unlike the others, this one was made of a pearlescent, opaque, crystal-like substance that glowed faintly, not unlike the interior of a seashell. His eyes traveled up towards the ceiling which was painted a deep, dark blue, dotted with silvery orbs that seemed to move in a slow, infinitesimal dance. The night sky and the constellations, he realized. 

A husky chuckle pulled him from his fascinated observations. "My scrying chamber." she explained, tracing a delicate finger along the wall, a ripple of shadows following in its wake, almost like the surface of a lake disturbed by a pebble. She had taken off her coat, he noticed belatedly, a simple blue dress the same shade as her mercurial eyes encasing her form. She waved a hand at one of the armchairs. "Sit. Enjoy the warmth." Again, he obeyed, unable to stifle a groan at the combined bliss of a fire and a comfortable chair. The woman crossed to the kitchen area and reappeared momentarily with a steaming bowl of what looked to be a thick, savory stew. "Eat." she said, handing him a spoon before she gracefully sank into the chair across from him. "For a supposed prophetess you're not very eloquent, are ya?" he rumbled in between bites as he shoveled the food into his mouth. 

Neither his comments nor his abominable table manners seemed to put her off, however. A raised eyebrow was all the answer she deigned to give. After refilling his bowl twice, she watched as he finally put his spoon down. "Fuck, that was good. Er, thank you." he mumbled, a decidedly uncharacteristic surge of self consciousness tying his tongue. 

As though she'd waited for this cue, the woman leaned forward in her chair, pinning him with an intense look. "Once, not so long ago, the rules of courtesy and hospitality were sacred, breaking them unthinkable. They still are to me, even if the world around us changes. Even if neither you nor your master heeds them." She didn't raise her voice, didn't inflect her tone with so much as a hint of anger, yet Sweeney shivered. A power, stronger than any he'd encountered in these godless days, emanated from her, making the hairs on his arms stand on end.

"He ain't my  _ master _ . I've my reasons for helping him, same as all the other poor bastards following him." even to him, his voice sounded bitter. Naturally, he went on the offensive. "And you? How come some puny little witch living in the middle of fucking nowhere can have that kind of juice, huh? Also," he drawled, leaning back against his chair in a show of being at ease, "Doesn't the law of hospitality dictate you give me your name? Since you obviously already know mine that's pretty rude, ain't it?" At his challenge, her eyes flashed, the motion too fast for him to decide whether in offense or amusement. Maybe both. Quick as a flash she rose, making him flinch back instinctively. She noticed, of course, her broad grin taunting as she swept into a low curtsy. "Forgive my poor manners, a life of solitude has made me a little…rusty on the finer points." Behind the curtain of her bone colored hair, he could see her eyes flash with mirth. "You may call me Lady Aurora." 

In one fluid motion, she was seated again, her fingers steepled as she regarded him. "I have called this valley my home for centuries. It is surrounded by a cluster of villages, small, out of the way settlements, virtually untouched by this strange new world. The people, simple, hard working folk, they pass on the legend of the witch in the woods, generation after generation they imbibe my tale along with their mother's milk. They know, as long as they keep the myth alive, their harvest will be bountiful, their winters short and mild, their cattle save from predators. It's a quiet life, but it suits me. Allows me to focus on my visions, puzzling over the ever shifting threads of the future. Which brings me to you. Tell me, why are  _ you  _ here? Ah-" she raised one pale hand to forestall his answer. "I don't care about your errand. If Odin wishes to seek my counsel he will have to make the journey himself. No. I want to know what it is  _ you  _ seek." 

Her eyes had never strayed from his, trapping him as effectively as any bond. He shifted in his seat, fighting the strange impulse to lean forward, to spill his every secret and desire. With an effort, he shrugged, the nonchalant gesture betrayed by the quaver in his voice. "Told ya, I'm here for the old bastard. Got my own stakes in his war, so if you could just hurry the fuck up and get to the prophesying bit I can be on my way and-" 

She got up so abruptly the fire flared in the grate, stirred by an invisible current of air. Her gaze was steel, her voice ringing with authority. "If that is your answer, then I have nothing to tell you. Leave, leprechaun, if that is what you believe you are. I do not welcome liars into my home." The same gust of wind howled through the cottage, throwing the door open so violently it banged against the wall. 

Sweeney half rose, the tingle of magic in the air so strong it nearly overwhelmed him. Her form seemed to glow, the light too bright, yet he couldn't look away. Something inside of him shifted as he stared at her, memories long buried flooding his mind, his single strongest wish swimming to the surface almost against his will. 

"My luck." His voice was a strangled whisper, hoarse as though he hadn't used it in months. "I wish to know…whether I'll get it back. I…I can't go on living like this. Like a fucking shadow. Ha!" his bark of laughter was entirely humorless. "Shadow. If only I'd never clapped eyes on him and his cursed father."

The light around Aurora was gentle now, a soft embrace that soothed his very soul. Wordlessly, she turned to face the pearly wall. The surface rippled, stronger this time, images only she could see chasing each other in rapid succession. Sweeney watched with bated breath as her eyes clouded over, her vision far away as she sifted through the future taking shape before her eyes. He had never believed in fate, never put any stock in fortune telling, but he instantly recognized the real thing when he saw it. 

_ This  _ was the real deal. 

An eternity seemed to pass, the strange mirror of the sky above them tinged with dawn's soft hues when finally, with a shuddering breath, she emerged from her trance. Sweeney was up and out of his chair in an instant, catching her unsteady form to guide her into a chair. He knelt before her, trying hard to curb his impatience. "Well?" he rasped, unable to stand her silence a moment longer. 

Slowly, Aurora raised her head, her face inscrutable as her eyes locked onto his. "I.." she croaked, clearly still in the grip of her premonition. Without waiting for her to ask, Sweeney jumped up to fill an earthenware mug from a pitcher of water on the low table between them. She drank gratefully, her breathing calm when she finally put the cup down. 

"You have a long way to go still. But…" she trailed off, the briefest flash of uncertainty crossing her ageless features. 

"But?!" he urged, once more kneeling before her like the supplicant he was. When she reached out a hand, he flinched back, startled, but all she did was place her palm against his cheek, her expression strangely gentle. 

"Your luckless days will end." she said simply. 

Sweeney was vaguely aware of a ringing in his ears as he rocked back to lean against the chair he'd previously occupied as her words sunk in.  _ It would end. He would get his luck back.  _ A slow, almost giddy happiness spread through him, an emotion he hadn't thought he'd ever feel again. He jumped up, almost knocking over the furniture in the process as his long legs swept back. "Are you sure? Are you  _ absolutely  _ sure?" he asked, looming over her where she slumped in her seat, clearly exhausted. A weak nod was answer enough and with a crowing laugh he spun around, missing the look of utter sadness and pity she gave him. 

"Fuck me, I knew it. I  _ knew  _ there had to be an end to this." In another swift movement he spun back to her, grabbing her limp hand to press a fervent kiss to her knuckles. " _ Thank you." _ he said emphatically, eyes brimming with gratitude and relief. Again, all she did was nod. Sweeney stood, for the first time in a long time stretching himself to his full, imposing height, his regal stance and bearing reminiscent of the king he once was.

The silent tear wetting her cheek escaped his notice as he pulled on his boots, suddenly eager to rejoin the world, to rejoin  _ life _ . 

He paused at the door, sketching a courteous bow, one hand fisted over his heart. "My lady, I shall not forget your kindness today, your hospitality.  _ My salvation. _ Thank you, Aurora. Be safe." With that he exited the dwelling, following the path back the way he'd come, eager, for the first time, for what the future would bring. 

Inside the cottage, the witch sat very still, haunted by the images before her inner eye. 

A house which Death himself called home. 

A vengeful Shadow. 

An ancient spear, piercing skin. 

A crimson pool spreading under a dying body. 

The end of his luckless days 

  
  



End file.
